


no thank you, mister mercury

by Thegaygumballmachine



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: (not really) - Freeform, Accidental Voyeurism, Almost A Songfic, F/F, Flouncy prose, Gratuitous Zelda description, I have no business posting this and you have no business enjoying it, If I see Satan I’ll tell him you said hi, Incest, Masturbation, Sibling Incest, Spellcest, Spellcest Prompt Challenge, Voyeurism, because she’s just so pretty!, choo fucking choo, harold — freeform, me? good at tags? ha, ridiculous amounts of Queen, taking the train to hell, the absolute barest minimum of plot, twoshot (hopefully)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 04:10:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17860031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thegaygumballmachine/pseuds/Thegaygumballmachine
Summary: “The moonlight plays beautifully off Zelda’s hair. She looks like she’s formed from it, bathed in white, a goddess in her own right.Artemis reimagined. Hilda entranced.”(Or, the one where Hilda’s morals are questionable and it works out wonderfully for all of us.)





	no thank you, mister mercury

**Author's Note:**

> Written to two together-as-sisters prompts: the overarching prompt of ‘caught in the act’, and, more specifically, ‘Hilda’s spiders are excellent spies, especially when it comes to watching Zelda without her sister knowing.’
> 
> This ended up being a love letter to Queen entirely by accident. I came up with the title at random the other night and things sort of spiraled out of control from there. Enjoy!
> 
> (Unbeta’d and written in a chocolate-fueled huff. I claim all mistakes as badges of honor. :D)

Originally, Hilda does it with golden intentions.

It is, in fact, Sabrina who pushes her — who raises the idea that all might not be as right as it appears. She tends to make something of nothing more often than Hilda would like, and her melodramatics are more like Zelda’s every day, but she is reliably good at sensing changes in energy.

Hilda privately likes to think that’s her influence. Sabrina may very well be rather incompetent emotionally, but she has an indisputable natural ability to read the threads of connection; an ability that leads her to take Hilda aside on a particularly snowy afternoon and explain to her, in a manner far more superior than she should even be capable of, that something is “wrong with Aunt Zee”.

Zelda has been brittle lately, that much is true — she’s smoked more than Hilda can possibly count in the space of the last three days, and her fuse is so short it might as well not exist at all. Add to that the cursing and drinking and Sabrina thinks it strange, but Hilda really just put that down to one of her sister’s more volatile moods; often, intervention leads to a nap in the dirt, and that is something she would very much like to avoid now that she has some semblance of a social life.

That is, until Sabrina tells her how often Faustus Blackwood has been summoning Zelda to his office.

Then she starts to see Zelda wincing when she sits, scowling at any mention of the academy, covering dark circles with copious amounts of concealer.

Starts to see that old pattern manifesting itself again.

——

She chooses Alexander for this particular job.

He’s smaller than most, and quite nimble; Hilda’s always had a soft spot for him, and the story he’s told bits and pieces of over their centuries together.

Goblins and sisters are much the same, she imagines. Unforgiving, unthinking.

He is, as always, more than happy to do it.

——

Night falls, eventually. Molasses in perspective. Sabrina at school, Ambrose traveling, any trouble to be found this evening will be blessedly lacking in teenage drama — though Hilda can’t say for certain whether she prefers the other kind.

Zelda’s drama is operatic. Theatrical. A play in five acts. (Usually Macbeth. Romeo and Juliet, if she’s lucky.)

Queen on the record player, tea on the stove.

_Keep yourself alive,_ says Freddie. Nothing of a rhapsody tonight, bohemian or otherwise.

The kettle whistles. Hilda is slow to fetch it. Her feet drag, and even she isn’t exactly sure why. Tea tasting of artificial roses, she feels apart from herself, a space or two removed. Crickets chirp, lazy-sweet, and Zelda, off upstairs, readies for bed.

She leans against the counter, cups her mug in her hands, and closes her eyes to the world. Hazily, her old bedroom comes into focus. She watches from the ceiling, the corner least noticed, well worn scenery tinted with something new. Alexander spins his web slowly, delicately.

It isn’t her proudest use of her familiars, this. Often, she finds herself regretting it. Tonight, she soothes herself by calling it necessary, draping it in words like _reconnaissance_ and _family safety._

The moonlight plays beautifully off Zelda’s hair. She looks like she’s formed from it, bathed in white, a goddess in her own right.

Artemis reimagined. Hilda entranced.

She lounges gracefully, stretched out on her bed with legs crossed at the ankles. Her bible rests in one hand, and the other toys with the hem of her nightgown — deep plum tonight, and sinfully short. With practiced rhythm, she mouths along, and Hilda watches for more time than she realizes, admiring the reverence with which her lips shape the words.

There’s tension to her pose, restless energy, and that in and of itself is unusual enough. Wordlessly, she instructs Alexander to move closer, just slightly.

“Praise Satan,” Zelda whispers, throaty and fervent, and Hilda does too, out of habit. Her eyes flutter closed, lashes sweeping over blush-pink cheeks, and she leaves the book to fall where it may, wasting barely a second before she hikes the gown up to her hips.

It takes longer than it should for Hilda to startle. She spends a taut moment transfixed by Zelda’s skin, exposed with such purpose.

This is not hers to see.

——

The kitchen’s gone cold. So has the tea. She pours it down the sink and puts her head in her hands, valiantly ignoring the sudden dryness of her mouth.

She feels filthy. Worse than. _Depraved._

Still, she tells herself it’s impossible to help — Zelda is intoxicating, a vision in satin, and her self control in this regard has always been tenuous at best.

The guilt collecting in her chest is quiet enough that she can ignore it with little trouble.

What Zelda doesn’t know won’t hurt her, will it?

What Zelda doesn’t know won’t hurt _Hilda,_ will it?

“Bugger,” she says, barely refrains from slamming a hand down on the table.

_Don’t stop me now,_ says Freddie.

On a steadying breath, she sinks into her usual chair, closes her eyes, and, reluctantly, settles.

She could so do with a break.

——

Zelda’s rubbing herself through red silk and Hilda couldn’t look away if she tried.

It’s decadent, all of it, the fabric and the touch and her little gasping inhalations, as if she can barely bring herself to breathe. She looks every inch a proper witch, encompassed in darkness, in unabashed lust. Her eyes are wide and glassy, like a doll’s; consumed with sensation.

Hilda can feel the power of it, the crackling energy she gives off. It makes her head swim with more than she can comprehend.

She’s always admired how well Zelda knows herself, how confident she is, but this takes that to another level entirely. She is so at home in pleasure, as if this is her natural state of being, as if she is meant to experience this — and Hilda to experience it with her. Desperation claws at her, a raw, unrelenting need, and she bites her lip until she tastes iron, working to reach some form of calm.

Zelda’s head tips back, driving hard into the pillows. She slips her fingers where Hilda can’t see them and _finally_ moans, a stuttered, wild thing that connotes more animal than woman.

“Sweet Lucifer,” she whispers, overcome, and Hilda can do nothing but marvel at her.

She’s obscenely wet. Hilda can hear it in the press of her hand, see it in the flush of her chest and the hardness of her nipples against the gown. It’s a breathtaking picture, and her reaction is visceral, uncontrollable.

Zelda arches, gasps, and chokes out a sound that bears uncanny resemblance to Hilda’s own name.

She thinks she might come on the spot.

——

“Please, let me…”

Eyes closed now, lost in a fantasy, Zelda begs to the air. Hilda clenches her thighs together and wills herself not to answer.

Drowning in her. In the idea of her.

A copper-haired siren, drawing her to her inevitable end with the sweetest of songs.

_Dynamite with a laser beam,_ says Freddie.

_Guaranteed to blow your mind._

——

After, both of them are breathless.

Hilda has trouble distinguishing it. Zelda rakes a hand through her hair and chuckles, low and ragged.

“You think yourself subtle,” she murmurs, toying with the strap on her gown. She’s glowing, ethereal, and far too knowing. “It’s… cute.”

She raises her gaze to the gauze of Alexander’s web, meets Hilda’s eyes through his and smiles on her shock, languid.

Wicked.

“Do come again, won’t you?”

Hilda hears the shadow of her laughter long after she shakes herself of the vision. It curls on the wind, not cruel, but certainly not kind — a brand of condescension that belongs to Zelda alone.

Humiliated. Eviscerated.

Given the choice, she’d rather the shovel.


End file.
